My world is punctuated by airplanes. They carry me to my dreams and deposit me back in the arms of those who love me. I wake up in one part of the world and go to sleep in another, a state of things that never ceases to astonish me. If I'm not on a plane, I'm watching them float by far overhead, usually keeping my eyes on them until the clouds envelop them or the distance makes them invisible. I always wonder where they're going, a thought immediately followed by "when will I be on one again?"
There's a park in Virginia, just across the Potomac, over which airplanes fly just before touching down at Reagan National Airport. They're so close I can almost graze their underbellies with my fingertips. After they cross over the water, they leave behind them an eerie jet stream, thousands of tiny whispering voices that dance in the aftermath of a landing. It's one of my favorite parts, and this park one of my favorite places. I could come here and eat sunshine for breakfast to the soundtrack of burning jet fuel. What better way to spend a day off.
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